Torque is Cheep
by Mad Bertha
Summary: Dan and Rorschach on an owl-themed motorbike, with crazy stunts and sexy times.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating**: MA**  
Warnings**: improbable absence of traffic cops and even more implausible sex (later).  
**Summary**: Biker!Dan/schach on the OwlBike  
**Beta:** silvergrin  
**Disclaimer**: Do not own.

For a kinkmeme prompt.

* * *

For more than a few months, he's observed a shape growing under a tarpaulin in Daniel's basement. Pride prevents him from peeking or asking outright. Instead, he pays closer attention to the various parts Daniel works on during the day. Writing in his journal or reading the _New Frontiersman_, he watches from the periphery of his vision, solely to identify the mysterious object that is Daniel's daytime pre-occupation; Daniel at his workshop, sometimes in his overalls, oily streaks clinging to his cheekbones, or, rather shamelessly, in his under-vest and shorts, straight out of bed, third coffee steaming gently on the ground next to his toolbox.

Occasionally, there is a dented, paint-chipped metal item he beats out, clangs reverberating around the Nest and forcing Rorschach to retreat to the kitchen to huddle over whatever is in Daniel's fridge or cupboards. Sometimes, putty is reluctantly mixed and applied with a spatula, to the accompaniment of muttering over the travesty. This is followed by sanding, cleaning, painting and buffing with tools that spin or rattle, always making a huge din, until suitable aloofness is impossible to sustain.

When he sees the two aerodynamic objects that Daniel styled with chrome art deco trim, there is no choice. He has to find out. While Daniel lovingly hand-paints _feathers _along this thing, he harrumphs, "Daniel," making it sound like an accusation.

"Yes, Rorschach?" Daniel covers up his initial startled reaction with what Rorschach internally refers to as his _irritatingly_ pleasant smile and _idiot-child_ face.

"What is that?" he says, somehow managing to pack, _another extravagant time-wasting distraction that is taking you away from things that really matter, like crime fighting and patrolling_ into it.

"Uh, what?" Daniel says, making the impatience rise in him until he growls.

"Oh, this?" he says, pointing to the feathered brown thing.

"Yes, Daniel, that."

"It's, uh, it's a rear fender."

"A fender." Rorschach is getting a little worried now. "You're working on a motorbike?"

Dan isn't sure what he expected Rorschach to say, certainly not wholehearted support, but he is a little disappointed when Rorschach huffs and expresses his disapproval at the way he is spending his time. Hands in his pockets, he glares--for that is what the pattern looks like--at the bike in question with a ferocity he usually reserves for prostitutes who come a little too close.

"I do not understand this sudden desire to put yourself in the seat of a death trap, Daniel. What is wrong with the owlship?"

"Nothing's wrong with Archie. And may I point out the irony of a safety lecture coming from you, a man that regularly throws himself off roofs and fire-escapes?" He suspects the real reason why Rorschach is being particularly irascible, so he says, "Besides, I was kind of hoping you would be riding it too."

"Me?" Rorschach appears startled.

"Yes, you. To fight crime," he offers as a carrot.

Unfortunately, with not much of a result. "On the back of that thing?"

"Um... Yes. There's plenty of room," Dan says, pointing to the raised rear portion of the seat before feeling slightly silly.

"With y--" Rorschach appears struck dumb. He looks from the bike to Dan and then back again. Then he turns to Dan, rolls his shoulders, and just stares at him.

Dan begins to feel extremely uncomfortable, and hastens to end the conversation. "Well, there's plenty of time to think it over. Now, how about that patrol?"

The next few months see Rorschach demanding more research and other work outside of patrol time from Dan. He asks Dan to chase increasingly impossible leads, sends him on absurd errands. Yet Dan manages to steal time here and there, fuelled by coffee and the same fanaticism that created Archie. He feels inspired, he studies the technical aspects of custom-made and racing bikes, things to do with mufflers and other aspects of the bike's engineering to make it go faster and quieter than anything else on the road. He decides on a tire design that will allow it to be as maneuverable and fast off road as well as on, because you never know.

At the touch of a button, the bike throws up shields that enclose its riders and protect them from bullets and other assault weapons. Drawing on his crime fighting and owlship experience, he thinks up other things to add that could be of use to vigilante work: CB radio, police scanner, radar, a smoke screen, talons that pop out of the sides of the wheels, screechers, and warm/cold drink holders.

With each addition, Rorschach becomes more and more gloomy as the reality of Daniel's conviction becomes clearer. He's not sure what it is about the bike, after all, isn't Daniel creating a lethal weapon, another addition in their arsenal against crime? But the thought of riding pillion makes him very nervous, for some reason. He's fortunate that, Daniel being Daniel, there's always something new to add, something that doesn't quite work the way it should, and Daniel is pulling apart some part of the bike again.

One evening, his heart sinks as he walks up the tunnel and Daniel is already at the end of it, apparently waiting for him. He has that look in his face, the one that makes him want to both punch him in the face and yet also ... he refuses to think about it further. Dan is clearly excited about something, he's got his costume on but the cowl is off. There's a ramp that wasn't there before leading up to where Dan has his owl suits and other gear. Where the bike is.

The front recalls Archie, with large round twin headlights and oval windshield, only more streamlined. The fairings on either side resemble wings flaring out, leading to the wheels, the covers of the fork end with talons at the front wheel. Here and there are feathers against the dark brown background, painted as if picked out by moonlight. The overall impression is of an owl diving, legs stretched out in front to snatch its prey. When he looks more closely, he can see instruments, buttons and switches neatly integrated into the fairing, behind the windshield. It is massive, built for Nite Owl's frame.

Half an hour later, Dan is still persuading Rorschach. By now, both of them have exchanged insults and threats. Dan is getting increasingly desperate.

"Come on, Rorschach, haven't you heard of _The Wild One_? Marlon Brando?"

"Hedonistic delinquents engaged in disorderly and criminal activities, bad role models for youth. Excuses manslaughter, and responsible for glorification of gang violence--"

Before Rorschach can begin the familiar litany against immoral films, Dan says, "All I'm saying is live a little."

"Intend to. Starting with a sense of self-preservation."

"Self-pre-- _You_?"

"Cannot fight crime dead, Daniel." Wait, was that a smirk?

Dan concentrates on putting the finishing touches while he thinks. It can't be what he says. Rorschach is rarely afraid of something so ordinary as mortal danger, is this one rare instance? Or... the thought forms, could it be Rorschach is nervous about Dan, whether he can be trusted to be able to ride the bike, whether Dan is, in fact, a good enough rider? There was only one way to find out.

"Of course, if you're afraid--" and Rorschach cuts him off with one of his obscene throat noises.

"I am not... _afraid _of what is simply a mode of transport. Simply debating operational issues. Suppose the partnership should be open to new things."

"Now you're talking. Besides, there is that carjacking ring..." he offers as a clincher. The overly-successful car theft operation has been a pain for both the police and themselves: the stolen cars are used for a free ride, but more seriously in other crimes, like ram-raiding business premises and shops or to do a hit, and avoid identification. Many end up stripped and scattered in other vehicles, others have their VINs and plates swapped and wait in dealerships and shipping docks.

Rorschach's reluctance is obvious, but he is not one to reject a tactical advantage, which being on a fast motorbike would indeed bring. He climbs on to the back of the bike, hands grabbing at the bars on either side of the seat, legs looking short as they attempt to wrap around the sides. He takes off his scarf and uses it to tie his fedora down. Dan works hard to keep his face straight. They'd need to do something about that. In the meantime...

He tries explaining with gestures, "Um, you'd be more in tandem with the bike and me if you put your hands round my..." then swallows, hands shifting quickly to pull at his cowl, suddenly awkward.

"Fine like this," Rorschach says firmly, looking prim as he keeps his hands clutched on the bike.

"Okay. Sure."

They pull out of the tunnel, and Dan is a bit shaky around the first bend; he is a little nervous. Somehow, burning the candle at both ends, even with Rorschach cracking the whip behind him, Dan has also been having one-on-one training at the Nascar race track, explaining it away as a hobby (wasn't that what heirs to family fortunes did?). He's been taught how to skid through sand and oil, how to stop and spin the bike around, ride on narrower and narrower raised planks and make jumps spanning gaps. Part of it has to do with shifting the centre of gravity, using his gaze to direct his body to steer the bike, to wherever he wants it to go.

He was not, however, taught how to deal with a particular sensation: muted by padding, he still senses it, the rub of Rorschach's coat against his Kevlar-protected back. He's both nervous and victorious--he thought it would be at least a week before he got Rorschach to ride, and something about Rorschach's apprehension is a pleasant novelty, a little of a reversal to Dan. What isn't is his own physical reaction to Rorschach's proximity, and he's glad his partner can't see it from behind him.

It's all too much of a distraction, so he tries to tune it out. He's stopped at the lights and turns to glance at Rorschach, who shrugs at him. He takes the time to reflect. Recently, using the instructor's bike, he's ridden through city streets, car parks, and race tracks. The bike at first felt like an untamed beast, himself out of tune, awkward. Then, more lately, it's become more familiar, an extension of his body, and he's been surprising himself and his teacher, spinning, cutting and leaning into corners like he's been doing it since he was three.

He reaches behind to tap Rorschach on his arm. "Do what I do," he tells him. The latter has barely enough time to grip more firmly before Dan pulls the throttle in sharply, throwing the front wheel up, the bike rearing like a wild colt, and off they go. He smiles to himself as he feels Rorschach put his arms around his waist in an attempt to keep from flying off the back, practicality winning out over unease over contact. Five minutes on the motorbike has achieved a breakthrough in Rorschach's wall of reserve that a couple of years as partners did not. Dropping from the wheely onto two wheels again, he revs up, flicking with his foot through the gears, until they're almost at top speed.

A good thing he knows these streets so well: up ahead comes a right corner that he knows is followed by a swing to the left, so he's well-prepared. He feels Rorschach slam against him as he applies the front brake and changes down the gears. He lightens pressure on the front to release the beginnings of a lock, looks beyond the bend and leans the bike into the right corner. Straightaway past the first corner, he swings up and then leans to the other side to bring the bike around the left curve. Rorschach echoes his movements, a little slow, but not so badly as to destabilize the bike; he's quick enough, and it won't take long before he figures out what to do.

Sure enough, at the T-junction, Rorschach has already worked out where Dan intends to turn and roughly how to lean the body and keep his head upright. There's time for Dan to give a congratulatory 'thumbs up' to which Rorschach responds with his middle finger in front of Dan's face.

Strong language, especially from Rorschach, but Dan's on a high and unstoppable. The next crossroads, he executes a spin, and there is a mix of very real fear that the bike would drop, and euphoria when he successfully turns the bike three hundred and sixty degrees to face the direction it came from. Feeling proud of himself, he takes the bike to the pace of a light jog. A tap on his shoulder reminds him of his passenger. Turning around, his goggles fill with the vision of Rorschach up close--and there is no mistaking the blot for 'angry.'

He signals, _okay, okay_, and rides the bike home.

Back at the nest, if Dan's flushed and his voice is filled with excitement, it is from the thrill of the ride. Nothing more. And if it's given him ideas on how to use the bike as a weapon against crime, Rorschach didn't need to know yet. At least, not until he gets him back onto the bike again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Rating**: MA**  
Warnings**: implied violence, explicit language and sex  
**Summary**: Biker!Dan/schach on the OwlBike  
**Beta:** silvergrin  
**Disclaimer**: Do not own.

For a kinkmeme prompt.

* * *

It is unacceptable. It goes beyond the call of duty, what Daniel expects of him, he thinks as he trudges yet another time down the tunnel, limbs still a little bit shaky. He'd gone along with using the bike for patrols, with riding behind Daniel. All for a good cause: the car thefts have been stepped up a notch, citizens are complaining, and the New Frontiersman has taken to ranting about taxpayers being deprived of the rewards of their hard work. It is becoming embarrassing for both the vigilantes and the cops and he's willing to endure a certain measure of discomfort in order to nail them. But it seems each night, his boundaries are being breached, the neat lines that delineate their partnership bleeding out. And all because of that contraption.

The night began with Nite Owl emerging from the dressing-room-in-all-but-name clad in some sort of cross between his normal owl attire and a motocross racer. He comes down the steps a little stiffly and squeakily, because he's entirely encased in brown leather, a one-piece racing suit. There's something on his back... oh, of course, what else--a triangular flap of leather stitched to his shoulders and upper arms made to resemble wings. Rorschach allows himself to be a little grateful for the absence of a cape: it was blowing in his face and around him. The outfit is topped by a full-faced helmet with owl tufts, similar to the ones on his cowl but sweeping a little further back, he supposes, for air flow.

He _harrumphs_ to disguise the beginnings of a laugh. Still, he appreciates the effect it would have on those already ridden with paranoia and guilt--Nite Owl looks less human, taller and more intimidating, the leather clinging-- He especially approves of the visor, which has the shape of a barn owl's face and is made of a dark, reflective material that completely hides Daniel's face.

"Infrared vision?" he asks, but he knows the answer even before Nite Owl nods. He reaches under his chin and, _sheeek_, the visor slides up, revealing Dan's face. He's not quite happy with how exposed it looks--there are no spectacles or goggles protecting Daniel's brown eyes, currently filled with excitement more befitting a little boy.

The matter of the costume dealt with, he's turning away when he hears Daniel clearing his throat. Not usually a good sign. Daniel fishes something out from the bench behind him and holds it out to him. A helmet. This is too much. He's already had to deal with Daniel repeatedly hinting about body armor in the past. He likes his costume the way it is. He starts to shake his head.

"Come on, Rorschach, it'd give you better protection."

"_Hurm_. Plenty of protection but you still get hurt."

He feels no small satisfaction as Daniel pauses momentarily at this, but then hears him say, in a casual voice, "So... what, you're going to question suspects and witnesses with the scarf tied over your hat, like some sort of eccentric aunt?"

"Don't be an imbecile, Daniel, only whilst riding." It's too late, though, as his mind will not let him forget the image that Daniel has painted for him. With a sigh that puffs out his mask, he places his hat carefully on Daniel's draft table and snatches up the helmet. At least it is not too ostentatious, just a black open-faced helmet, and will not affect his vision and fighting. It is a small adjustment, totally pragmatic. Tapping the helmet, he reflects on its weight and hardness before putting it on.

"No, the strap has to be pulled through. Like this." Daniel's gloved fingers feel cool against his jaw. The smell of coffee on his breath. He mutters, "A bit hard with my gloves on, though."

Before he can go further, Rorschach flicks him off. "Enough wasting time, let's talk to the contact I mentioned."

The insurance inspector they interview gives them very useful information: the car thieves are branching out into insurance scams, and someone's gotten a bit sloppy in their greed. One so-called victim of car theft looked too familiar to her--she saw him on a different case several days ago. She's given them an address which Daniel will check out in the day.

It is progress, in any case. However, Daniel is not taking them back the way they came. No, apparently he has other plans. He rides them out of New York City, passing through wide highways. It was from this point the problem really started. First, it manifested under his posterior, the thudding of the motorbike against the inside of his legs, an insistent rhythm sent to where they join. It is just a physical reaction, not anything more, the hardness becoming increasingly demanding as they pass more trees, less buildings, sloping land rising and falling alongside.

He finds himself leaning in, and draws back as subtly as he can. The scenery slows down, starts acquiring details. They follow a long slow curve east; hit a straight, empty stretch and then--

In his ears, Daniel's voice cuts into his reflection. "I need you to hang on tight." What was--? It dawns on him that the helmet is less innocuous than he thought; it is Daniel-made after all. He growls to himself and is irritated to hear, "Don't be like that--think about the operational advantages." Apparently, their helmets are equipped with two-way communication devices.

"Hardly think chatter about transitory female acquaintances is an operational advantage--"

"Hey! That... that's just unfair, Rorschach, you know I wouldn't do that. And Rachel is not some blow-in, although I give you I have yet to know her better--"

"Yammering. Right now."

"Okay, that's it." The bike is moving slow; he feels it, the difference in the way the bike is stopping. The rear ends lifts up and he's got barely enough time fling his arms tighter around Daniel's chest before he is flung hard against his head and shoulders as the bike continues to move forward on its front wheel. "Easy, easy, pal!" as, in an effort to stay on, he snaps his arms tight around Daniel.

"DANIEL! PUT BIKE DOWN NOW OR WILL MISS BEING ALIVE!"

"Come on, we need practice." Pleading.

"_Umfft_. Fail to see how broken neck will be of any use."

The bike falls back down, swings dangerously from side to side and then accelerates. Rorschach breathes again, beginning to loosen, only to be thrown backwards as Daniel practices a wheely. As the personage formerly known as Nite Owl whoops, he clings tightly. He reflects that it was one thing to leap from building to building and climb fire escapes, but sitting on the back of a motorbike while another person did their best to crash it was completely different.

As he adjusts, he begins to notice the effects of friction and the throb of the engine and grits his teeth against them. On their way back, he ascribes the intensification of the depraved feelings to the spikes of panic and the clashing physical and mental challenges that he's been put through. The pressure against his groin is becoming painful. It is intolerable; it is the ultimate affront to all that he has striven for. Resentment against the man in front builds. It is all he can do not to... not to attack Daniel, to push him onto the floor... to... to--

It might be-- No. It is just chemicals and the corrupting influences of his childhood that are having this effect upon him. He does not even bother to respond to Daniel's almost-enquiring, "Good night" as he leaves. When he reaches his apartment, he decides it would be best if they work apart for a while; perhaps that is all that he needs to salvage Rorschach's incorruptibility, critical to cleansing and protecting the city from human filth.

Three nights later, he's waiting for Daniel near the bike again. It is not a big sacrifice for the sake of fighting crime, after all.

The carjacking ring has coalesced around the figure of someone calling himself 'Motohead'--and they really shouldn't laugh, after all, look at their own lineage of assumed names. And costumes. He's taken on the style of turn-of-the-century motorists, with a gray cloth duster jacket, scarf, driving goggles and peaked cap. Already, he boasts an army of thieves, chop shops, fences and money launderers. They good cop bad cop the hell out of the insurance cheat. Faced with Rorschach's methods of inquiry, he finds a sympathetic ear in Dan, providing a list of members of the network and their locations.

It is one of these that they are visiting tonight, a huge workshop in a dockyard warehouse specializing in stripping and changing car ids. Cars and car parts everywhere. Dan sends the bike surging forward. Rorschach's hold on him tightens as the bike thunders towards the mechanic and two men.

There's a surge of triumph as they gain upon the fleeing criminals and are almost at their heels--but then their targets veer off into two directions. A moment of panic as he's suddenly released by Rorschach, the bike sways, and then utter amazement as he watches his partner pull away above him. Rorschach's used the grappling gun to hook one of the supports of the warehouse. He reels himself in, flying above Dan. He now swings himself towards the mechanic and drops on him from above.

Dan turns his attention to the other men. He chases one down and--he's done this many times already, but it still feels like he's throwing himself to fate when he does it--steps on the back brake hard. This makes the bike skid forward and hit the man. He's down; he's holding his leg and looking terrified. Not too far away, the other suspect climbs up some crates that are in his way. A hard swing, and his crescent handles this one, the target drops where he is.

"_Hurm_. Underestimated the tactical value of owl bike." Dan feels the blush spread across his face--this is the first time that Rorschach has called it that. It is usually, 'that thing,' or 'it', often spat out with contempt. Not for the first time, he also notes Rorschach's strategic omissions of pronouns, this time allowing him to escape a real apology. He takes out a pair of handcuffs from the alternate dimension that inhabits his trench coat pockets, clicks them in place, and, the mechanic secured, leaps over to where he left the grappling gun. A practiced twist of his wrist--as the hook comes off the beam, he's already pressed the retract button, and the cable zips into the recess of the gun with a thwack that echoes around them.

He turns back to the mechanic as Dan ties up the others and looks for his crescent. Only one finger is required to secure the leads needed to pinpoint where Motohead is based.

As Dan tucks his crescent away, he hears a sickening crack. Rorschach is finishing up and it might be messy. He winces as he turns to the sight. The helmet is swinging off the straps held in Rorschach's hand, and Dan guesses that it, too, had done its service to the cause, and had a part to play in the prone figure of the mechanic. "He was complaining about the pain," Rorschach explains. He shrugs. "Alteration to uniform is serviceable"--and that is as direct a compliment or concession he would be getting.

Rorschach is in a good mood, and shows off a bit--he vaults onto the bike lightly and sits there, arms across his chest, looking at Dan. Dan can't help but smile. There are few sights that give him pleasure as much as seeing his partner in crime fighting obviously pleased and happy.

He's looking forward to celebrating a bit on the ride back.

Time passes.

Dan eases the bike down to a graceful stop, takes off his helmet, and waits for Rorschach to hop off. Rorschach doesn't move; his arms are still clasped around his waist.

"Um, Rorschach?" His voice lifts at the end. Perhaps Rorschach is hurt? Rorschach removes his helmet slowly and places it on the ground. He puts his hands against Dan's shoulders, makes to push away, and then instead leans in, head pressed against Dan's back. He feels a sharp exhalation through Rorschach's chest.

Dan turns around in inquiry and is struck speechless by what he can read of Rorschach's posture and the darkness of his mask. The black almost covers the whole of the areas around his cheek and mouth. He twists his body completely around, hitching his legs over to switch sides and face Rorschach.

Rorschach rubs at the sides of his head, the indication, Dan knows, of extreme distress. "Can't go on doing this, Daniel."

"Wh.. What? I thought we did well tonight."

"Yes. No... Not what I meant. _This_ is your fault..." and Rorschach slides forward and presses himself against Dan. Now he can feel what is causing Rorschach's distress against his own groin. His partner rubs a latex-covered cheek against his chest and Dan wraps his large hands around the back of his neck. He experiences a brief moment of panic as Rorschach pulls away.

Rorschach reaches underneath and peels his mask up from beneath his throat and hitches it on his nose. He clumsily pulls himself up on Dan; in an instant, Dan feels stubble rub against his jaw, and that contact against his skin almost does him in. He swallows, heart racing.

"I did not want this. You..." Rorschach growls against his throat. "You _insisted_. Said it gave us a 'tactical advantage'. Even threatened to go patrolling alone with your bike."

"Ror-_schach_, please, buddy, no kidding around, it's not like I f-forced--_hey_!" Rorschach pushes him back and lines Dan's left arm taut along the handlebar. His other hand works his scarf loose. He holds Dan down using his shoulder while he quickly winds the scarf around. Dan's left arm now secured the the handlebar, he watches Dan through the mask as he fiddles with something at his abdomen. His trench coat belt--what--? And before Dan can do anything about it, his right arm is belted up to a handlebar and, now, he's truly at Rorschach's mercy.

"L-look Rorschach, I wasn't threatening to go out patrolling..." Dan realizes he is hard himself and finds the time to wonder what is wrong with him. There should be nothing to celebrate in being bound by a maddened Rorschach.

"No, not a threat to say," mimics Dan's tentative voice, "'How about I take it out alone some nights, you know, Mondays or something?'"

"Ow!" Rorschach bites Dan's ear lobe, and his snarls and growls remind Dan of a rabid dog. Abruptly, he stops; he draws himself slightly back and tilts his head at Dan.

"Daniel." He can goddamn feel that stare shooting through the mask.

"Rorschach?" Dan makes himself grin at his crazy erect partner.

"Choice." He sounds soft, almost scared.

Dan takes a moment to process this before he surprises himself in his response. He pulls at his restraints and says, "Did you think it would be anything else but..." and he has to control the pitch of his voice, so it ends up coming out low, "Yes. Yeah, buddy."

Rorschach inhales sharply. Dan feels a breeze against his neck as he sighs and proceeds to run his teeth along the line from his jaw to his shoulders. The zip of his suit is pulled down excruciatingly slowly to expose his torso.

He hears Rorschach moan as he slides his arms through Dan's sides and stretches up into a kiss. A rough, awkward one of colliding teeth and gums, but Dan doesn't care. Rorschach tastes as he might expect: coffee, sugar and day-(week?)-old breath. Part of Dan can't believe it's Rorschach he's kissing, but the warmth fills him, he revels in Rorschach's mouth desperately devouring his.

As he rubs against Dan, crotch to crotch, Dan groans, "Jesus, give me a chance to adjust!" Then, "No, no, don't stop. Go on!"

Rorschach chuckles. "I don't think you are in a position," tugging at his zip again, "to dictate."

"You are perfectly right--Fuck!" as Rorschach reaches down and seizes his balls a bit too roughly.

Shards of Rorschach's quieter self return briefly as he says softly, "Apologies. Not something I've done much."

"No, really?" he responds, but more sarcasm is driven out of his mind, "Aaah..."

"Should remember I have you by the testicles," Rorschach says, moving them around in a slow hypnotic rhythm. The combined force of fear and pleasure is becoming unbearable. Rorschach is unzipping down the inside of Dan's thigh and he feels helpless, pinned as he is on top of the petrol tank.

A hiss escapes his lips as he sees Rorschach's cock brought out of his pants, stiff and glistening in relief against the sculptured marvel that is his partner's abdomen. He feels its fleshy hardness sliding against his own shaft; Dan's buttock muscles clench and he thrusts wildly.

No relief comes for him, not yet, as Rorschach slides his cock around his thighs and up his groin, the feel of wetness from his precome driving Dan to beg. He hears a low growl against his neck and scenes of his partner interrogating suspects pass through his mind and make a beeline down to his cock, causing it to twitch in impatience.

This doesn't escape Rorschach's notice: his hand shifts and Dan is gripped firmly by a gloved hand. He peels back Dan's suit further, exposing him right down to his knees, the suit effectively restricting his legs. He leans down and licks Dan near his belly button, and huffs in amusement, his warm breath sliding around the abdomen.

"What?"

"Salty."

"Sorry. Next time, let me know we're going to do this and I'll be... _Uh!_... appropriately seasoned. Would you prefer honey or--"

"Spare me your debauchery." The downturned mouth and sneer accompanying _debauchery_ brings him close. The air leaves his lungs as he feels the slippery wetness of Rorschach's tongue flick down his stomach, and lap the area next to the tip of his cock, which is jutting out stiffly.

Leather squeaks as Rorschach shifts his legs, places his arms on either side of Dan, and bends close. He licks experimentally at the tip, it jerks against his lips, almost like questing. Dan gasps, his breath and pulse shoot through the roof.

Lips close around his cock head and he gasps, "Rorschach!" And just hearing his own voice saying it like that, just that... It is all his strength to stop himself from ejaculating.

A vibration shakes from Rorschach's throat through Dan's length. It is the sensation of Rorschach moaning.

He feels wet warmth descend down his shaft, and then swipe upwards again, leaving a slippery wake. Then down, a little faster and smoother. Beyond the curve of his chest, he witnesses the sight of his partner in crime fighting, mask rolled up halfway, red curls at the base of his head. Freckles against white skin. Bent at work on _his_ cock.

On the first attempts at taking in the whole length, Rorschach gags before finding a way to open up his mouth and throat. Sometimes his teeth scrape, but he learns fast from Dan's reactions. Rorschach builds his rhythm.

When he cries out, "Oh, fuck, _now_!" Rorschach straightens up, fisting him as he comes louder and harder than he'd ever come before. The bike frame shudders along with him, rattling resounding through the basement.

His movements desperate, Rorschach doesn't last too long. He ruts against Dan, weight balanced on his arms, cock sliding around the wetness. He is facing the come strewn around Dan's belly as he climaxes with a "_Hurrgh!_" His own ejaculate flies out to join the rest on Dan's stomach; his mouth is open, ends pulled down.

Later, speaking in hushed voices.

"What would you have done if I said, 'No'?"

"Would have hoped to persuade you."

"How do you mean, 'persuade'?"

"_Ehnk_." And then, "Would like to rest. Still have to go on final pre-dawn patrol."

Silence; followed by, "You have got to be kidding."


	3. Chapter 3

**Rating**: MA**  
Warnings**: explicit language and implied violence  
**Summary**: Biker!Dan/schach on the OwlBike  
**Beta:** silvergrin  
**Disclaimer**: Do not own.

For a kinkmeme prompt.

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It's the half hour when the drunken refugees from the bars have stumbled their way home or passed out completely, just before the delivery vehicles and cleaners, the bakers and morning shift workers start coming in; that little held breath before the city resumes again. It is far too late to get into a bar now, but this cabbie doesn't mind. She's got her _Hustler_ to take to bed; all she needs is a quiet smoke before she turns in. She turns off the sign on top and is getting out when there's a brief whirr sound.

She'd not be working the New York night shift if she didn't have fast reflexes--her quick dive back saves her from being mowed down. Appearing from around the corner, a large dark shape, twice her height, sweeps by where she would have been standing. As what appears to be a motorbike passes, she catches sight of a giant rider with far too many limbs. She squints: the figure resolves into two vaguely-human shapes, one standing on the shoulders of the other, and she hears voices raised in argument before the shape shrinks into a tiny dot in the distance.

"Fucking lunatics! Watch where ya fucking going!" she shouts; it's useless, they're too far away, but she feels better anyway. Adjusting her beret and tucking red curls back behind her ears, she decides, what with mad bikers and car-thieving crims, it's probably best to just head home. Bloody useless police and vigilantes when a cabbie can't take a well-deserved smoke after a hard night's work without being disturbed.

"Okay, what's the story you got?" Officer Bourquin's not in a good mood. Sure, it's great that Motohead is off the streets, heading to hospital with a severe concussion last thing he heard, but there's no glory in it for them or the NYPD, and tons of paperwork to boot. When they arrived on the scene after a phone tip off at the station, they were met by chaos around them, offset by the tidiness with which their prisoners, all twelve of them, were tied up and packaged for them. "What?" he asks, irritated by the bemused expression on his partner's face.

"Lissen to this." Fine recites from his notebook, cigarette burning out of the corner of his mouth. "'We was just working on some cars when this great big smoke covers everything around us, right, couldn't see a thing and it was making our eyes water and shit, and then all of us was knocked down by this huge machine that spun round and round. I think I hit my head and, the next thing I know, I see your ugly mug staring down at me.' That's my first one. Claims he knows nothing about the cars being stolen, just a simple mechanic getting some extra cash outside his regular job."

Bourquin scratches his head, tipping his cap back. "Beats me what happened here. Old guy over there tells me it was three, maybe four men, all on top of an enormous motorbike. Says it flew in the air when it went after Motohead's car. Says one of them was a black horned giant. Name's Doug McKenna, three previous for motor vehicle theft." They both smile and wave to the prisoner. They won't be seeing him for a while on the outside.

"My second man's a fan: 'It was a-_mazing_, officer, they were _both_ standing on the seat of the bike, and what that black and white dwarf was _doing_, man... he did a _back flip_ off that goddamn bike ...' And on and on, sounds more like a circus act than a criminal apprehension. Oh, and, surprise surprise, twenties, first offence." Hearing Fine's summary, Bourquin frowns and peers from under his eyebrows at the young man in question.

"Let's have a look at that car again." The two police officers get back into the squad car and drive up to Motohead's badly-damaged convertible.

"Look at these wheels here," says Fine, pointing to the two shredded right tires. "This happened while it was still moving, must have caused it to weave and hit the building."

"Not just that. The blood on the dash and steering wheel. All over both front seats. Hair here. Glass from the goggles--would you b'lieve that? Goggles. Anyway... that was some fight."

"Did you see the _state_ of the guy? It'll be a fortnight before they get to talk to him."

"Whoever they are, let's hope these guys don't make a habit of breaking the cases we work on. I'd like to be able to make detective some day."

As much as he'd a sneaking admiration for the costumed biker crime fighters, Fine had to agree with his partner. The auto crime unit wasn't exactly the best route to detective investigator, and they were both angling for a transfer to, say, narcotics or homicide. Getting scooped by vigilantes riding motorbikes wasn't going to help. "Not to mention what the newspapers will say." He stubbed out his cigarette on the ground and reached in his shirt pocket for another.

"You know, you really should give up those things."

"_Yeah, yeah_, they'll be the death of me. C'mon, let's blow this place and get some food."

They alternate with the police, busting each arm of Motohead's crumbling empire. When it's all over, they still occasionally take the bike on patrols. It gives a different perspective than surveying from the sky in Archie. Most of the time, the bike feels like an extension of their partnership, part of them, part of him.

Most of the time.

Daniel must sense the disquiet that sometimes builds up under the mask, before one of their rides; now and then, he looks at him with lightly-veiled concern. He ignores Daniel; he can hardly explain when he can't understand it himself.

The lights of shops and neon advertisements sweep past, drawing long streaks of color on both sides. His field of vision ahead is restricted, so he has to rely on Daniel to sail them through, negotiating the twists and turns, and all he can do is to move with him, to sway to the left or right, to lean backwards. The thin shadows of the lamp posts slice them up again and again; the street lights flash ahead, above, and behind.

He still experiences a brief spike in his heart rate on take-off and quick decelerations. One threatens to have him sliding off the back seat; the other throws him against Daniel. Their effect is to send him into a trance-like state as the adrenaline takes hold and he's living in that heightened state of alertness senses firing off, body and limbs spring-loaded.

The vehicle is large, forgiving, but it needs to be precisely-balanced, and so he needs to anticipate and move along with Daniel. Walter's arms tighten around Daniel's waist and he closes his eyes, feeling weight shifting, intentions signaled by contracting and expanding muscles, momentum pulling at them, letting himself be guided by the rest of his senses.

If he lets go, he will tumble back, left behind, a dark shadow in his wake.

He holds on.

This time, he already knows what Daniel is working on. Yet, when he comes by, he's sometimes caught Daniel, with apparent casualness, throwing a large sheet over it. This, of course, makes him even more curious, and he contrives to come by at other times of the day. The first time, Daniel was already rubbing his eyes and opening his basement door. After that, the object in question is moved. One night, in an attempt to satisfy his curiosity, he breaks into Daniel's room. The next day, at the Gunga Diner, the memory of that particular encounter leaves him blushing so red that he has to go to the restroom.

The day finally comes for the unveiling...

"No."

"What? What's wrong with it? It blends right in with the rest of it," which is, admittedly, correct, down to the fine brushwork, "and I put plenty of thought into the interior." The sidecar does indeed look comfortable. It has a plush leather interior and a few interesting buttons and levers that no doubt have some use for crime fighting.

But. No. He doesn't care how finely and tastefully Daniel has painted the thing, with its light cream-colored downy feathers, little beak and large round eyes. Nor does he like its rounded contours. It is all highly inappropriate.

"Not a baby owl, Daniel."

When Daniel doesn't argue and simply puts an arm around his shoulder, smiling in reassurance, he knows he has a battle ahead of him.

THE END.

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_Comments welcome!_

_ destroys urls, but much viewing fun may be had if you search youtube for motorbike stunts.  
_


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